Office as home: the third-from-last moment in advanced-capitalist mereology; the inverted spatial fetish of the creative underclass, in which work is play, play is life. We all sleep in an office, tapping blindly into the .xls file of our own barely elaborated intentions, with weak and unconvincing truces drawn between evolved subsystem and perso-narrative boilerplate logged by the billable quarter-hour. But I'm actually living in an office. At least for the weekend. And despite it's awkward distance from bars or takeout it's a fucking pleasure.
Anyway while the situation I've found myself in is almost the exact opposite of what the recession is, it still tells me that the recession is great, and that it's deepening will only serve to make my relatively few waking daylight hours more intoxicatingly vivid. Wake me up when the only things you can buy are bindles and coffins.